Chapter Text
John Watson wakes with a silent scream on his lips. His body quakes with repressed fear, a sheen of sweat covering his forehead and upper lip. The dream wasn’t much different from any other since he was invalided back to London from Afghanistan. The sound of Murray screaming his name as gunfire and explosions nearly deafen him. It takes a moment for his surroundings to register in his mind. He’s in his bedsit, a long way from the way; he’s safe. He throws his head back against his pillow, willing his breathing to regulate, his heart to stop pounding in his ears. Eventually he gives up; allows the tears to flow. Murray can never be replaced.
₪ ₪ ₪
John limps along the pavement, willing his mind to focus on anything other than Murray laying under him, Murray’s blood pooling out around him, Murray taking his last breath just as a sharp pain pierces his shoulder and the world turns black. It takes a moment for him to register someone calling his name. He turns back, a curious frown marring his features for a moment before he sets his sights on a slightly overweight man standing from a bench he hadn’t realized he’d just passed. He sifts through his memories, trying to put a name to the face in front of him.
“Stamford. Mike Stamford. We were at Bart’s together,” the man says, holding his hand out for a shake.
John moves back towards him, “Yes, sorry, yes, Mike.” He shakes Mike’s hand, “Hello, hi.”
Mike grins, gesturing to himself, “Yes, I know. I got fat!”
John fights the grimace and tries to make himself sound convincing when he replies, “No.”
Mike glances around a bit, “I heard you were abroad somewhere, getting shot at. What happened?”
John’s reply is awkward. “I got shot.”
They stand for a moment in an awkward silence. A bit later, they both sit on the bench Mike had abandoned; each with a take-away cup of coffee in their hands. John takes a sip, ignoring Mike’s worried look, before turning to his old friend.
“Are you still at Bart’s, then?” he asks.
Mike nods, “Teaching now. Bright young things like we used to be. God, I hate them.” This prompts a brief chuckle from both men. “What about you?” Mike asks. “Just staying in town ‘till you get yourself sorted?”
John gives a light shrug, “I can’t afford London on an Army pension.”
Mike smiles a bit, “Ah, and you couldn’t bear to be anywhere else. That’s not the John Watson I know.”
John shifts, uncomfortable, “Yeah, I’m not the John Watson…” he breaks off.
There’s another moment of awkward silence between the two and John switches his cup from his left hand to his right, clenching and unclenching his now free hand, before Mike breaks it. “Couldn’t Harry help?”
John huffs, “Yeah, like that’s going to happen.” His tone is sarcastic, but neither make note on it.
Mike shrugs, taking another sip before replying. “I don’t know - get a flatshare or something?”
John gives Mike an incredulous look. “Come on - who’d want me for a flatmate?” Mike chuckles, prompting a confused look from John. “What?”
Mike looks up from his lap, eyes set on John in a thoughtful manner. “Well, you’re the second person to say that to me today.”
John tilts his head a bit, “Who was the first?”
₪ ₪ ₪
Sherlock stands at the far end of the lab, a pipette in hand. He squeezes a few drops of liquid onto a petri dish. Mike knocks on the door and brings a man in with him. Sherlock casts a quick glance at them before turning back to his work. He can hear their conversation, as though it’s a soft song playing in the background of his mind.
“Well, bit different from my day,” the man says as he limps into the room, eyes scanning the equipment.
Mike lets out a small chuckle, “You’ve no idea.”
Sherlock takes a seat, casts a quick glance up again at the two men. “Mike, can I borrow you’re phone? There’s no signal on mine.”
“And what’s wrong with the landline?”
“I prefer to text,” Sherlock’s voice makes it clear that should be obvious.
“Sorry, it’s in my coat.”
The man with the can fishes in his pocket, pulls out his phone. “Er, here. Use mine.”
Sherlock looks up at Mike for a moment before he stands and walks towards the man. Mike makes the introduction. “It’s an old friend of mine, John Watson.”
Sherlock takes the phone from John’s hand, turning partially away and starting to type. “Afghanistan or Iraq?” he asks.
He catches John’s frown out of the corner of one eye and Mike’s quirk of lips out of the corner of the other. John queries, “Sorry?”
“Which was it?” Sherlock asks. “Afghanistan or Iraq?” He glances at John before turning back to the text.
“Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you know…?”
Molly’s entrance cuts John off and Sherlock glances up at her. “Ah, Molly, coffee. Thank you.” He shuts John’s phone and hands it back before taking the cup Molly offers him. He looks closely at her, noting the paleness of her lips. “What happened to the lipstick?”
Molly gives him an awkward smile. “Wasn’t working for me.”
“Really?” he asks, “I thought it was a big improvement, you’re mouths to small now.” He turns and walks back to his station, grimacing at the taste of the coffee.
Molly is silent for a moment before a soft ‘okay’ escapes her. She turns and heads back to the door.
“How do you feel about the violin?” Sherlock asks. He catches John looking to Molly and then to Mike, who still has a smug smile on his lips, before the realization sets in.
“Sorry, what?” John asks.
Sherlock’s fingers tap away at his laptop as he talks. “I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end.” He looks over at John. “Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.” He tosses John an obviously false smile, watches as he glances at Mike.
“Oh, you ... you told him about me?” John asks Mike.
“Not a word,” Mike replies with a slight shake of his head.
John turns back to Sherlock. “Then who said anything about flatmates?”
Sherlock picks up his greatcoat as he answers. “I did. Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn’t that difficult a leap.”
“How did you know about Afghanistan?” John asks as Sherlock wraps his scarf around his neck before picking up his mobile and checking it.
“Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it,” Sherlock says as he walks towards John. “We’ll meet there tomorrow evening; seven o’clock. Sorry - gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary.” He slips his phone into his pocket and walks past John towards the door.
John’s eyes follow him, “That’s it?”
Sherlock pauses, turns back to John. “Is that what?”
“We’ve only just met,” John notes, “and we’re going to look at a flat together?”
“Problem?” Sherlock quirks a brow.
John smiles disbelievingly, turns to Mike for help, gets none and turns back to Sherlock. “We don’t know a thing about each other; I don’t know where we’re meeting; I don’t even know your name.”
Sherlock’s eyes roam John more a moment before he speaks. “I know you’re an Army doctor and you’ve been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you’ve got a brother who’s worried about you but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him – possibly because he’s an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp’s psychosomatic – quite correctly, I’m afraid.” He pauses, John glances at his leg. Sherlock continues, smugness evident in his voice, “that’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think?” He continues towards the door, opens it, leans back and looks at John. “The name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is two two one Baker Street.” He clicks his tongue and tosses John a quick wink before exiting.
In the hall, Sherlock berates himself for winking at John. He learned after Victor Trevor not to let anyone in his life, to cut off from his emotions. Should have listened to Mycroft from the beginning, really, but he’d thought Victor would be different, wouldn’t hurt him. A handsome man is no reason to let those walls fall again. He’ll have to keep his guard up with this one.
Back in the lab, John casts Mike a disbelieving look. Mike let’s out a small chuckle. “Yeah, he’s always like that.”
₪ ₪ ₪
John returns to his bedsit. He pulls out his mobile phone as he sits on his bed. He looks at it a moment before flicking through the menu to find the messages sent.
‘If brother has green ladder
Arrest brother
SH’
John stares at the message for a moment, trying to figure out what it means. He stands from the bed and moves towards the table where his laptop is set. A does a quick ’Quest’ search for Sherlock Holmes. In the back of his mind, he berates himself for being thrown off by a pretty face. He pushes the image of Murray, bleeding out as he frantically tries to fix what’s wrong, out of his head.
₪ ₪ ₪
John is just making his way to the door of 221 Baker street as a black cab pulls up to the curb. He knocks on the door as Sherlock steps out from the cab, turns to pay the cabbie. “Hello,” he says to John. “Thank you,” to the cabbie.
John turns to Sherlock, “Ah, Mr. Holmes.”
They shake hands as Sherlock replies. “Sherlock, please.”
John glances up and down the street. “Well, this is a prime spot. Must be expensive.”
“Oh, Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, she’s giving me a special deal. Owes me a favor. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out,” Sherlock replies.
John turns back to Sherlock, “Sorry, you stopped her husband being executed?”
“Oh, no,” Sherlock gives a self-satisfied smile, “I ensured it.”
Mrs. Hudson opens the front door, pulls Sherlock into a hug. “Sherlock, hello.”
Sherlock steps back from the hug, turns to introduce John. “Mrs. Hudson, Doctor John Watson.”
“Hello,” Mrs. Hudson smiles.
“How do?” John replies as he steps up towards them.
Mrs. Hudson gestures for them to enter, “Come in.”
“Thank you,” John says.
“Shall we,” Sherlock gestures towards the entrance.
Mrs. Hudson steps to the side, “Yeah.”
They enter the building and climb the stairs, John taking a bit longer to hobble up to the flat. Sherlock opens the door to the living room, John follows him in. The room is in shambles, boxes and possessions scattered about. John glances around at everything, notes how much potential it has. Sherlock agrees, looking around the flat with a small, genuine smile.
“So I went ahead and moved in,” Sherlock says just as John says, “Soon as we get all this rubbish cleaned out.”
“Oh,” John breaths, a light flush coating his cheeks. “So this is all…”
“Well,” Sherlock flits about, moving things and trying to straighten up a bit, “obviously I can, um, straighten things up a bit.” He grabs some unopened envelopes and walks across the room to the fireplace. Using a penknife, he fixes the envelopes to the mantel.
John’s eyes have settled on the mantel, he unthinkingly lifts his cane to point at it, “that‘s a skull.”
“Friend of mine,” Sherlock replies. “When I say ‘friend’…”
Mrs. Hudson enters, picks up a cup and saucer as Sherlock removes his scarf and greatcoat. “What do you think, then, Doctor Watson? There’s another bedroom upstairs if you’ll be needing two bedrooms.”
“Of course we’ll be needing two bedrooms,” John hastily replies. He can’t think of sharing a room with someone who’s not Murray; can’t allow anyone else in. He resolutely ignores Sherlock’s questioning gaze.
“Oh, don’t worry; there’s all sorts round here,” Mrs. Hudson says. She drops her voice, whispers the next bit, “Mrs. Turner next door’s got married ones.” John ignores this information as Mrs. Hudson enters the kitchen. “Oh, Sherlock,” she exclaims, “the mess you’ve made.”
John moves across the sitting room, drops his body into one of the armchairs. Sherlock is still tidying the room. “I looked you up on the internet last night,” he says.
Sherlock turns and looks at him, “anything interesting?”
“Found your website,” John admits, “The Science of Deduction.”
Sherlock smiles proudly, clasps his hands behind his back, “what did you think?”
John throws him an incredulous look, “You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb.”
Sherlock looks hurt for a moment before pulling up his mask again. There’s no reason this man’s approval should mean anything to him. “Yes; and I can read your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother’s drinking habits in your mobile phone.”
“How?” John asks, and he sounds genuinely interested.
Sherlock smiles, turns to the window. Mrs. Hudson comes out of the kitchen, “What about these suicides then, Sherlock? I though that’d be right up your street. Three exactly the same.”
“Four,” Sherlock says, looking down at a police car that’s pulled up to the curb, lights flashing. Someone gets out of the car and makes their way towards the door of 221. “There’s been a fourth. And there’s something different this time.”
“A fourth?” Mrs. Hudson asks just before a man walks into the flat.
“Where?” Sherlock asks, looking towards the man.
“Brixton, Lauriston Gardens,” the man says.
“What’s new about this one?” Sherlock asks. “You wouldn’t have come to get me if there wasn’t something different.”
“You know how they never leave notes?” the man asks.
“Yeah.”
“This one did. Will you come?”
“Who’s on forensics?” Sherlock asks.
“It’s Anderson.”
Sherlock grimaces. “Anderson won’t work with me.”
“Well, he won’t be your assistant,” the man concedes.
“I need an assistant,” Sherlock insists.
“Will you come?” he repeats.
“Not in a police car,” Sherlock notes. “I’ll be right behind.”
“Thank you,” the man says. He looks around at John and Mrs. Hudson for a moment before turning and hurrying back down the stairs.
As soon as he’s sure the man has reached the door, Sherlock leaps into the air, clenching his fists in triumph. “Brilliant! Yes!” he exclaims as he twirls about the room. “Ah, four serial suicides and now a note. Oh, it’s Christmas.”
He pulls on his coat and scarf, grabbing a small pouch from the kitchen table as he moves about. “Mrs. Hudson, I’ll be late. Might need some food.”
“I’m your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper,” she reminds him,
“Something cold will do. John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don’t wait up!” Sherlock disappears out the kitchen door as Mrs. Hudson turns back to John.
“Look at him, dashing about,” she says. “My husband was just the same.” John ignores the uncomfortable feeling that comes along with the implication that he’s in a relationship with anyone. It had been hard enough convincing Harry he’s fine on his own, that he doesn’t need anyone in that manner. “But you’re more the sitting-down type,” she continues, “I can tell.” Mrs. Hudson turns towards the door, “I’ll make you that cuppa. You rest your leg.”
John looses control of himself for a moment, all the feeling he suppresses on a constant basis coming to the forefront as he shouts, “Damn my leg.” He flinches at his own town, immediately apologetic. “Sorry, I’m so sorry. It’s just that sometimes this bloody thing…” he deflects from the real reason for his outburst.
“I understand, dear,” Mrs. Hudson assures. “I’ve got a hip.” She turns back towards the door.
“Cup of tea’d be lovely, thank you,” John says as she leaves the flat.
“Just this once,” she says at the top of the stairs. “I’m not your housekeeper.”
“Couple biscuits too, if you’ve got ‘em,” John calls out to her.
“Not your housekeeper.”
John sits there for a moment, his mind wandering back to Murray and then to Sherlock. So different from each other, both gorgeous in their own way. He shakes the thoughts from his mind; don’t get attached, don’t get hurt, he reminds himself. He picks up the newspaper and has just opened it when Sherlock rushes back into the flat.
He stops at the door as John looks up at him over the top of the paper. “You’re a doctor. In fact, you’re an Army doctor.”
“Yes,” John says as he gets to his feet and turns towards Sherlock.
“Any good?” Sherlock asks.
“Very good,” John is not vain, he’s honest.
“Seen a lot of injuries, then; violent deaths.”
“Mmm, yes.”
“Bit of trouble too, I bet.”
John’s voice is quieter as he replies. “Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much.”
“Want to see some more?” Sherlock asks.
“Oh, God, yes,” John’s reply is more excited than he intends and he follows Sherlock from the flat.
₪ ₪ ₪
The case is more interesting that John had originally thought it would be. Aside from being left at the first scene, the drugs bust (really, Sherlock?) and the moment of irrational fear of loosing Sherlock when he’d only just met him, the whole thing is one large adrenaline rush; just what John needs in his life. Somewhere along the way, he lost his psychosomatic limp. He’ll have to remember to thank Sherlock for that.
Sherlock. That’s something else that John wasn’t expecting. The man is a veritable hurricane. He’s everywhere at once, spot on with just about every deduction (though he hadn’t taken into consideration that Harry could be short for Harriet), and absolutely breathtaking when he’s at his best. It had been hell when Angelo had implied that they were there for a date.
This could prove to be a problem. John cannot afford to loose himself to someone again. After Murray, after that much pain, it just isn’t worth it. He just can’t.
₪ ₪ ₪
“Why have I got this blanket?” Sherlock asks as Lestrade walks up to him. “They keep putting this blanket on me.”
“Yeah, it’s for shock,” Lestrade replies.
“I’m not in shock,” Sherlock assures.
“Yeah,” Lestrade grins, “but some of the guys want to take photographs.”
Sherlock rolls his eyes at that. “So, the shooter. No sign?”
“Cleared off before we got ’ere. But a guy like that would have had enemies, I suppose. One of them could have been following him but,“ Lestrade shrugs, “got nothing to go on.”
Sherlock looks at Lestrade pointedly, “Oh, I wouldn’t say that.”
Now Lestrade rolls his eyes, “Okay, gimme.”
Sherlock stands as he starts rattling off information, “The bullet they just dug out of the wall’s from a hand gun. Kill shot over that distance from that kind of a weapon – that’s a crack shot you’re looking for, but not just a marksman; a fighter. His hands couldn’t have shaken at all, so clearly he’s acclimatised to violence. He didn’t fire until I was in immediate danger, though, so strong moral principle. You’re looking for a man probably with a history of military service,” he looks around the area, eyes coming to a stop on John standing some distance off behind the police tape, “and nerves of steel…” he trails off as connections start being made in his mind.
John gives Sherlock an innocent look before turning his head away. Lestrade follows Sherlock’s gaze and Sherlock jerks his head back to Lestrade before the DI can ask any questions. “Actually, do you know what? Ignore me.”
“Sorry?” Lestrade asks, confused.
“Ignore all of that,” Sherlock says. “It’s just the, er, the shock talking,” he turns and starts walking towards John.
“Where are you going?” Lestrade calls after him.
“I just need to talk about the-the rent,” Sherlock calls back.
“But I’ve still got questions for you.”
Sherlock turns back to Lestrade, irritation evident on his face, in his stance. “Oh, what now? I’m in shock. Look, I’ve got a blanket,” he brandishes the sides of the blanket at Lestrade as though he’s proving some kind of point.
“Sherlock,” Lestrade tries.
“And!” Sherlock cuts him off, “I just caught you a serial killer… more or less.”
Lestrade looks at him thoughtfully for a moment. “Okay,” he relents. “We’ll bring you in tomorrow. Off you go.”
As Sherlock continues on his way to John, he considers the other mans actions. They’d only just met and John had killed for him. John is an average man; average looks, average personality. Nothing about him screams look at me. Maybe that’s what’s so extraordinary about him. He’s so average, but he’s so far above average as well.
“Stop! Stop, we can’t giggle, it’s a crime scene! Stop it!” John admonishes and Sherlock can’t help but smile.
It’s a bad thing, Sherlock thinks to himself. A distance must be kept. He can never allow anyone as close as Victor had gotten. Caring is not an advantage.